


Home is a Memory

by glim



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Relationships, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Coughing, Fever, Fever Dreams, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Id Fic, Influenza, Mostly Gen, Multi, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Self-Indulgent, Sick Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Sneezing, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 09:07:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10084019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: A few weeks after waking up in the new, modern world, Steve Rogers gets a remarkable case of the flu.





	

For the first few days, all he knows is the roar of panic at the edge of his senses. Everything inside him tells him that he needs to escape, that if he could run fast enough or far enough, he'd be able to get back to where started. He'd be able to go home and be able to recollect all the things he'd thought he lost. Everything is new and bright and loud, and all of it makes him want to run away. 

He's not sure when time starts to have meaning for him again. First, he measures it by the beat of his heart, when it races with panic and when he can force it to calm; then by the hours he's awake and the ones when he's asleep. At some point, the concept coalesces in his mind again, and when he's cognizant that that not only have days passed, but months and years and decades, the panic settles though it doesn't disappear. 

He may not understand the way the world works anymore, but Steve Rogers knows one thing: he's already been through some of the worst things life has on offer, he's already lost as much he can, and he's already endured the greatest pain. So he'll get through this, too, and he'll learn how to live a new life the best he can. 

That must be what the med staff is waiting for--for his heart to settle into it's natural timekeeping rhythm, because that's when the machines and monitors appear. He's not sure if the panic lessens, or if it's just disguised by the hum of machinery. 

At first, they monitored everything, all day, everyday. His every breath and heartbeat, his reaction to every stimulus around him. He spent at least two or three days constantly hooked up to some S.H.I.E.L.D. monitor, uncertain of what they were looking for, but compliant enough to agree. He's half worried his heart or his lungs are going to give out on him after seventy years in permafrost, and if some one of the machines they hook up to him could give him a warning sign, that would be appreciated.

Now, a week after the intense medical attention, Steve has a decent amount of time to himself. They give him books and newspapers, a television set, and as much paper and drawing materials as he likes. It's nice, not to be thought of constantly as a medical anomaly and a science experiment. 

He could do without the constant medical machinery, though, even if he only has to deal with them for a few hours a day.

"They're not really machines," the doctor says to him, and he nods. "At least, not in the way you're thinking. Take a few more deep breaths." 

"Right." Heart, lungs, brain, major muscle groups, nervous system. He thinks maybe he's been mapped into a series of data points. "Computers. Okay?" 

"That's great. Again? Thanks." They get through the morning check-up with learned efficiency these days. "You can go to the gym now.You're not due for any special monitoring today are you? You can choose any workout you like." 

"It's not a guinea pig day today. I'll probably just go running, though. They had me lifting yesterday--a lot of strength and endurance tests. I think I can do some long distance running, though." 

"Alright." The doctor--Dr. Cranmer--smiles and puts his stethoscope aside. He's the closest thing Steve has to a personal physician, and maybe the person around here Steve talks to most frequently, even outside check-ups. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Enjoy the day off." 

Steve nods again. After a couple weeks, he's getting used to how his life is starting to run like clockwork. It's comforting, in a way, to be able to push aside the panic and to let routine mask the urge to fight or flee. Check-up in the morning, workout, get his stats checked, then, if he's free, reading up on what's happened since the end of the war, or going out into the world itself and learning to live in it again.

The routine is an isolating one, but it's a routine, and he settles into it. The mornings are usually the best part of day, anyway: his check with Cranmer, a long workout, and then breakfast. After breakfast, reading, sometimes sketching. It's the long stretch of the afternoon hours that always feel the most lonely, however. 

Forty-five minutes into his run, Steve slows down to a walk and rubs the back of his neck. Surely, he hadn't done enough with the weights yesterday to feel this sore, not after an extended warm up this morning. 

He rubs the back of his neck again and keeps walking until the ache there and between his shoulders dissipates. 

For a few minutes, he feels a little better. He's able to let go of some of the tension, but the ache settles across his shoulders slow, steady, and heavy. Only after he's done about a half hour more of running on the treadmill does Steve realize that the feeling is more muscle fatigue than strain. He can feel it in his legs now, too, the heaviness and dull soreness that should've only come after a much longer, harder run. 

Walking's easier than running of course, and he keeps at it to round out his time on the treadmill, but a sense of dread... No, not quite dread, but apprehension starts to settle inside Steve, too. He can't place it at first, not really, and the sensation's easy enough to push aside and blame on yesterday's strenuous muscle strength tests. 

"How are you doing this morning?" One of the clinicians stops by the treadmill and checks the monitor, then looks back at Steve. "Everything okay?"

"Sure. I'm just... ready to cool down, I guess." He gives a smile and resists the urge to rub both hands over his face. His eyes are getting that tired, gritty sort of feeling. "Maybe that run was too intense after yesterday." 

"Hm." The clinician checks the monitor again, and looks at Steve again, too, curious this time. "Make sure you get some water. Did you sleep last night?"

Taken aback, Steve checks the monitor on the treadmill himself. His stats don't look that bad, but he can't read them as quickly or as accurately as any of the medical workers. He takes a second to pass one arm over his forehead and gives a shrug in reply.  
"I slept. As well as I ever do," he adds, before the next, inevitable question. "At least six hours last night, I'm pretty sure." 

"Make sure you drink some water. Maybe take a break before you go over to the rowing machine or..." She checks the stats once more, then records them on her tablet. "Or take it easy for the rest of the day? You look like you need some more rest, Mr. Rogers." 

Steve gives a breathless sound of agreement. The water advice is good on any day, really, and he's not going to get upset about somebody worrying over him. 

Quite the opposite, really. And even though he knows it's part of her job, just like it's part of his doctor's job, to worry over him, something inside him yearns for the attention. The offhand word or gesture of caring, the warm touch or sympathetic reassurance. 

It would be nice, he thinks, if some of that attention, at least some, small part, didn't have to be quite so clinical. It would be alright, every once in awhile, not to feel like an experiment that became unpredictable somewhere along the way and needs to be closely monitored.

He knows it's not true, he knows more people than not at S.H.I.E.L.D. see him as a person with feelings and beliefs, not only as some kind of medical miracle or curiosity. 

However, he's also highly aware that they keep a close eye on him. Maybe he's still an unquantifiable variable, some problem to be solved. The thought makes him sad, sadder than he's felt in the past couple weeks, and he can't shake the feeling. 

Steve has friends here--some of the doctors and nurses, a few of the agents who come to use the gym at the same time he does--but those new friendships don't feel like the old ones. The ones he still hasn't learned to let go of yet, even though they're long lost. 

He's not ready to lose anyone else just yet, so maybe holding off on anything resembling affection or friendship is worth it. Maybe if he waits a little longer, it'll be easier to face the possibility that anyone he lets into his life is somebody he can lose.

Maybe the wait is worth it, maybe it's not, Steve thinks again, and this time does rub both hands over his face. He's usually good at pushing those thoughts aside until he's by himself, in the small room that he can at least call his own, and he can put those sad, lonely feelings onto paper. Write them out, or draw them into some other shape. Make them tangible. Then fold them up and put them in a notebook.

Yeah, that's not working so good today. He rubs his face again and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. The heavy, dull ache in his limbs is still there, and the fatigue is creeping through the rest of his body, too. Draining his water bottle helps a little, but all the cool water in one go almost makes him shiver. 

He feels tired, and sore, and a little like he's just on the edge of feeling physically fragile. Which, while a novelty these days, also makes the world around him feel one again too loud, bright, and harsh. 

Okay. One breath, then another. Steve shuts his eyes for a second, breathes in and out slowly a third time, and takes a look around the workout room. Thinking about getting on the rowing machine just makes him want to close his eyes again and rub the back of his neck. His second thought is boxing training, but that sounds even worse, and almost makes him breathless just thinking about it. He gives a brief cough, decides to get more water, and then look for Cranmer. 

*

"Is Cranmer around?" 

Dr. Aragón look up from her desk and shakes her head. "I think he went to get some sleep. He's been on for over twenty-four hours," she reminds him, but kindly. "Did you need something?"

Steve shakes his head. Aragón is nice, maybe even nicer than Cranmer, but she's not usually around when Steve's going through the various daily medical check-ins. He's not shy around her, not really, but today he feels uncertain. 

"Are you sure? You look kind of pale." 

"Just a little tired." 

Aragón isn't convinced, but she doesn't push. Moore, who runs the night shift in the medical ward, he would push. Steve's suddenly thankful and lets out a sigh as he leans in against the doorjamb, shyness disappearing in the face of his sudden exhaustion.

"More than a little tired, maybe? I'm not feeling right," he says, because now he can really tell that something's wrong. "Tired, but... more than tired?" The urge to slump against the doorway starts to overwhelm him, but is quickly taken over by a shiver that runs through his whole body. He crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly aware of the way his shirt clings to him, sweat damp, and tries to rub the warmth back into his arms. 

"Here, come sit down." Aragón motions toward one of the seats in the waiting room. She brings him a cup of water when he starts coughing, and then, after disappearing into the back for a few minutes, hands him a cup of tea. "There. That might help, or warm you up at least." 

Steve wraps both his hands around the styrofoam cup and peers down into the tea. Heat is probably the only thing it has going for it, but that's fine, he'll take the weak, generic tea over another cup of cold water at this point. 

Even with the tea, however, he's shivering, and starting to cough, enough so that Aragón notices. Neither the tea nor clearing his throat takes care of the sudden dry, scratchy feeling in his throat. Coughing doesn't help much either, but he can't seem to stop himself once he starts. 

"Would you like another cup of tea, Mr. Rogers?" 

"Steve's fine," he says, by reflex, and coughs against his shoulder. "Um... I don't think so. I'll be okay, I... I'll call Cranmer later. I have his work number back in my room." 

Aragón turns from the computer she's working at and scrutinizes Steve over the desk, then shakes her head and walks over to him. He coughs a few more times, face turned into the crook of his elbow, and murmurs as apology as he rubs at his throat. It's starting to hurt from the coughing, and Steve's starting to suspect more tea's not going to solve the problem.

"It's fine. I'll call Cranmer. He's probably sleeping." She takes the empty cup from Steve, then holds the back of her wrist to his forehead. A thoughtful sound, and she takes a light and thermometer from her lab coat pocket. 

"Oh. You don't need to... I had everything checked once already this morning," Steve explains. He blinks, then shies away from the bright light when Aragón peers into his eyes, and even shivers when she puts the thermometer in his ear. 

"Hm. Well, something's obviously changed since then. You're running a low-grade temperature," she says. She touches his chin, and peers into his throat next. "Hm. That's starting to look not so great, too." 

"It doesn't feel great," Steve admits. The cough is not so bad, but it's starting to wear on his throat. Even the hot tea only helped while he was drinking it, and having his throat examined makes him want to cough again. He draws in a breath to do so, then quickly redirects the motion to muffle a couple sneezes into the crook of his elbow when the itch moves from his throat to his nose. 

He inhales once, carefully, and tenses in anticipation. The sensation backs down, then rises up again to force him to curl away from Aragón with sneeze.

"Bless you..." 

Steve nods, lets out a second, harder sneeze that hurts his throat, and make his sinuses twinge faintly.

He's going to have a headache soon, too, if he can remember any of his childhood cases of sinusitis well enough. Already the congestion is starting, and he sniffles a few times before he can tell he's done sneezing. 

Aragón blesses him quietly, and hands him the box of tissues from the waiting room's magazine table. "Keep the box," she says, "and you can go rest in the back while I get Cranmer for you." 

*

"Hey." 

Steve wakes up slowly, blearily, and leans up on one elbow when he realizes Cranmer's next to his bed. He has to blink a few times to get his eyes to focus, and even then he has to scrub them against his knuckles. 

What's Cranmer doing at his bedside?

Wait, no. He's not in his bed, but in a bed at the clinic. Steve shifts to try and get comfortable, but the cot's small and firm and he still feels sore. Chilly, too, and he tugs the thin blanket up over his chest. He's pretty sure he didn't have the blanket when he sat down on the cot earlier, but he's stupidly grateful for it now. He doesn't remember lying down, either, but apparently he was tired enough to do so. 

"Hey," he says. His throat's dry and sore, too, and he accepts a paper cup of water when Cranmer offers it. "Sorry. I fell asleep. Aragón said she'd get you, but... I didn't think I'd fall asleep." 

"I couldn't believe you were actually looking for me. You can just text me, you know that, right? Here, sit up. I think you just dozed off a little while before I can down here..." Cranmer pulls his chair closer and helps prop Steve against a pillow and the metal bedframe. 

Steve nods and blinks at Cranmer again. He knows how to text, and of all the new technology he's had to learn, texting hasn't been the most difficult by far, but he can't really grasp the knowledge at the moment. He coughs, finishes the water, and coughs again when the water does nothing for how awful his throat feels now that he's awake enough to realize. Swallowing only seems to make it worse, and talking makes him want to cough and _cough_. Enough that he can call up memories of childhood asthma attacks. 

Behind Cranmer, Moore stands with his arms crossed. Like Cranmer, he's efficient, and skilled, but he looks almost pleased as he watches their interactions. Like he's found something new to investigate and chart in a series of graphs. 

Like he's not already collecting enough data about Steve and the way his mind and body work.

The thought of him becoming a new file folder of data for Moore and the the rest of the medical staff at S.H.I.E.L.D. makes Steve want to huddle down into himself, under this blanket and whatever other ones they might offer him, to try and generate the warmth his body doesn't seem up to doing on its down. He doesn't, though, because he knows whatever he's coming down with is doing the talking. He pulls himself to sit up better on the bed and lets Cranmer insert one thermometer in his ear, and another under his tongue after he gets a reading from the first one. 

"He's got a temperature," Cranmer says to Moore after he checks twice. "101.7°." 

"What else?" Moore leans closer, interested, and nods when he looks at the thermometer in Cranmer's hand. "I can start tracking the symptoms."

When Steve doesn't answer, Cranmer touches his arm. "What else, Steve? How are you feeling?" Cranmer asks, and Moore draws away, looking a bit contrite. "You were fine when I saw you this morning." 

"Tired...?" 

"I'm certain of that. Muscle aches? Fatigue? You're coughing already..." Cranmer rubs his arm again when he coughs and gives him a sympathetic look. He glances over his shoulder at Moore and gives a nod. "He's definitely sick." 

"I didn't think that was possible. Well, no," Moore corrects himself. "Of course it's possible, I didn't think it was _probable_. We didn't think Captain America would get sick." 

Steve feels the simultaneous urge to argue and and hide come over him all at once, and both leave him feeling shaky inside. He doesn't feel like Captain America, he's not even sure he feels like _himself_. He feels tired and achey, and the headache he'd felt building earlier is now a low throb behind his eyes and sinuses. 

He presses the tips of his fingers to his forehead, almost trying to will the headache away, and gives his head a brief shake. 

"I'm not sick... I mean, I prob... probably--" The sneeze comes over Steve too quickly for him to do anything but turn aside and hope between the pillow, blanket, and his shoulder, he manages to catch it successfully. The itch in his sinuses almost takes over the dull throb of headache, making his eye water and nose twitch, and he doesn't bother looking up. 

The second, and third sneezes burst out roughly, and Steve can feel the scrape of it against his throat. He can even feel it in his chest, that tight, painful, second-long suspension of breath. Before he can catch his breath properly, he sniffles a couple times before presses his face more firmly into his shoulder. His sinuses throb after two held-in sneezes, but at least his throat and chest don't protest against the action. 

Both Moore and Cranmer bless him after the fit subsides, and Cranmer waits until he raises his head to offer him the box of paper-thin tissues again. Blowing his nose makes him cough a little, and the headache flares up worse, so Steve ends up sighing and drooping back against the pillow. He pushes the tissues against his nose, pushing back the urge to start sneezing again with it, and droops back against the pillow.

"Okay. I'm kind of sick," Steve admits, and pulls two more tissues from the box. "But it could be a really bad cold." 

"I'm going to need to do a couple rapid influenza diagnostic tests on you. Nose and throat swab, and it'll be quick." Cranmer stands up and thinks for a moment before turning to Moore. "Put all the health care workers in masks and gloves. It's probably something he picked up around here, but just in case." 

Moore nods, but Steve clears his throat and struggles to sit up better and talk to Cranmer. 

"In case what? Really, you gave me a flu shot, so it has to be just a cold... I get over those pretty fast," he says, and tries to explain about the couple quick, fierce colds he had in the army camp during the war. The coughing takes over his words, though, and Steve has to turn away to muffle it into the crook of his elbow. 

"I don't think that's a cold. The fever and chills, and cough--that's too much, even for you. And it came on too fast," Cranmer points out. "You were fine this morning, now you're down with a fever and chills, and multiple respiratory symptoms and it's only noon." 

Moore makes a sound of agreement. "Do the flu tests, and we should move him from the clinic to a room. A private room, since we have a few free in the medical ward." 

 

"Right. Just in case," Cranmer says again, and this time rests his hand on Steve's shoulder when the coughing dies down. "In case it's something that's been dormant in your system for past few decades," he explains. "A different influenza strain, for example, that's not common now." 

Steve nods as he tries to follow the doctors' line of thinking, but the coughing and restless sleep have muddled his mind. Probably the fever, too, he realizes with a shiver, and wonders how long it'll take his body to work that out of its system. Pretty quickly, he assumes, especially if they give him acetaminophen on the regular for a day or so. 

"Did you wear that to the gym?" Moore asks, peering over Cranmer's shoulder and down at Steve's tee shirt and track pants. "We probably have something you can wear." 

Cranmer shakes his head. "Don't put him in a hospital gown. I can get clothes from your room, Steve. Anything special? Pajamas? Sweats?" 

"Oh. No, wait, I don't need..." He pauses, finally understanding they want him to sleep in the clinic, and shakes his head. Another set of chills goes through him before he can voice his objection and he turns aside to catch another sudden, strong sneeze against his arm. 

"Bless you... Take it easy, okay?" Cranmer rubs Steve's shoulder once more when he shivers, and even gives a brief, hoarse cough after the sneeze. "I'll bring you something warm to wear and we'll get you settled in a bed, then I'll do the swab tests." 

*

Steve spends the walk to the medical ward alternating between coughing and sniffling into the mask Cranmer has him wear with as much restraint as he can muster, and trying to come up with a convincing argument that he doesn't need to be in the ward. By the time they get there, he's a mess, though, between his sore, itchy throat, his watery eyes, and his runny nose. The nurses and doctors in the corridor give Steve enough sympathetic, concerned glances that he knows he must look like a complete mess, anyway. 

By the time they get to his room, he only has enough strength to drop down to sit on the bed and wait for Cranmer to bring him clean clothes. He's still just sitting there, snuffling and rubbing his eyes, when a nurse comes in with a lunch tray. Steve waits for them to leave, then pulls off the face mask so he can snuffle into clean, dry tissues instead. 

He pulls two, three tissues from the box, holds all three of them to his face, and draws in a couple slow, deep breaths through his mouth. All the restrained sniffling and coughing on the way here only seems to have aggravated his sinuses and it's not long before the he's overcome by yet another sneeze. At least he doesn't start coughing really hard this time, afterwards.

Steve's shoulders droop after he rubs his nose into the crumpled tissues and he gives the room a look. Mostly bare, painted and decorated in cold, clinical white and blue. Steve shivers at the thought of spending his day in here, alone, and feverish. He shivers again, and reaches for a couple more tissues when he can feel some of the congestion easing. 

He's slightly less of a spectacle when his doctor returns. Cranmer comes back with a couple changes of clothes from Steve's room, all tee shirts and sweatpants and hoodies, socks and underwear, and a couple books and sketchbooks that Steve asked for. 

"What did the nurses bring you?" Cranmer asks. He hands over a clean shirt, sweatpants, and hoodie to Steve. The books, sketchbooks, and pencil case go on the bedside table. 

"More tea, lunch... And some jell-o, but..." Steve shrugs. He holds the clothes in his lap for a minute, and thinks that maybe he'd be okay falling asleep in his workout clothes again. 

"Not hungry? Try and finish the tea and jell-o anyway. I don't want to put you on intravenous fluids if I don't have to. Go on and change." Cranmer crosses his arms over his chest and gives the clothes, then Steve, a significant look. "Please don't tell me you're that stubborn of a patient." 

"I'm not," Steve says, and rubs the back of his neck. "I'm.. well. Yeah, okay, I am, but I don't need all ... Oh. All this..." He motions to the room around him, and pulls a couple tissues from the box on his bed. "Even if it's the flu, just give me whatever you'd give your normal patients... there has to be something, right? I can sleep it off, and be okay in a couple days..." The tissues are starting to hurt his nose already, which seems impossible, given how quickly he ought to be able to get over any illness. He sniffles, apologizes, and moves away from Cranmer to blow his nose.

The nurse that brought Steve his tea and jell-o had already been wearing the face mask and gloves that Cranmer instructed the med staff to, but Cranmer himself still has his own gloves in his lab coat pocket, and his mask pulled down off his face. He sits down next to Steve on the bed and sighs, then gives Steve an apologetic look. 

"I know you don't like this." And he, too, makes a motion with his hand at the room, the sparse furnishing, the monitors, and the lack of any real warmth. "And you're not going to like what else I have to say, I can tell." 

Steve can't suppress a groan. He's tired, he's cold, and more than anything he wants to go back to sleep and to wake up without the aches and chills and congestion. He sniffles again, and quickly swipes his nose. 

"Probably not. What is it, though?" 

Cranmer's quiet for another moment. "We're going to keep you off any medicine for now." 

Steve just stares. A lifetime ago, doctors would've leapt at the chance to give a kid like him all that modern medicine has to offer for colds or flu and asthma and sinus infections. 

"Okay. So, what does that mean? Nothing, even if it's the flu? No... no painkillers?"

Cranmer nods. "No anti-virals or decongestants, which is what we'd usually give somebody with your symptoms. We're going to try and let the fever run it's course, too, so, that's right, no painkillers.." 

Steve's heart sinks down to his stomach. He rubs the heel of his hand into one eye and then rubs at his nose. He's starting to get really stuffed up, his nose and his head and even his chest feel congested. It's so overwhelming, how he's managed to feel so stuffed up so quickly, that it takes Steve a few moments to realize the watery eyes and itchy sinuses signal another sneeze. 

"Sorry," he gasps, turning his face and down into his tissues. 

"Bless you. Look. If it even starts to look like you can't handle it, I'm going to put you on fluids and fever reducers. I promise. And if you can't handle it--" 

"I can handle it," Steve responds without thinking. "I know I can. I'd... I'd rather not, though," he adds. 

"Just today, and maybe tonight, then? So we can see what your body does with the fever and infection. Besides, your metabolism might render any medicine useless. We'll experiment... We'll try a couple different things," Cranmer amends when Steve cringes at the word 'experiment.' 

He coughs and shivers his way through washing up quickly and changing into the clean clothes, has to blow his nose twice, and by the time he's finished, Steve's ready to collapse in bed and agree to whatever Cranmer suggests.

For now, though, the suggestions only extend as far as the influenza diagnostic tests. Cranmer puts on the gloves and mask when he gets up close to Steve, though he looks oddly reluctant. 

"This one's not so bad. It's like a strep test." Cranmer pauses when Steve only sniffles in reply. "Right, sorry. I"m going to take a look at your throat, then swab the back to get a sample." 

"Oh. Okay." He sniffles again, rubs his nose into a handful of crumpled tissues, and opens his mouth. 

The swab in his throat is a strange combination of painful and ticklish, and Cranmer offers him his lukewarm tea when they're finished. 

"That wasn't so bad..." Steve takes another sip from the tea, and clears his throat. He frowns at the look on Cranmer's face. "Is the other one a lot worse?" 

"Depends on how you define 'worse.' Do you need to blow your nose? You should do that first," he says when Steve keeps snuffling into the cup of tea. 

Even though it's not particularly steaming anymore, it's warm enough to make his nose a little runny and a little less stuffy. Not by much, really, but enough that Steve needs to scrub his nose into the tissues and attempt to clear it as best he can. He coughs from that, too, and apologizes, then tries to blow his nose again. Another swipe against his nose with the tissues, then he rubs his eyes and pushes his hair back off his forehead. 

"Okay. Relax, and try to think about something else. Tip your head back. Good," Cranmer intones, and slides in a little closer to Steve with the nasal swab. "Do you want any movies to watch? Media could probably get you anything you like..." 

Steve braces himself for the swab, and cringes inside as the long, thin instrument invades his already tender sinus passages. This test's more painful than ticklish, and the ten seconds take an eternity to finish. He does try to think about movies, but the way his eyes want to water and his throat itch and his sinuses twinge take up all his attention as the slow seconds pass. All he can think about is not coughing or sneezing, and about the scraping pain of the swab. 

"There," Cranmer finally says and eases away. "It sounds and looks like you're pretty congested already. Sorry," he adds when Steve needs to requisition himself more tissues yet again. "I know it's unpleasant." 

Steve buries his nose in the tissues as he nods, and ends up coughing and snuffling more than anything else. The urge to cough or sneeze builds up again, but this time it's a sharp, prickling sensation that hurts as much as it tickles. Steve clenches his jaw and holds his breath against it, wincing. He still ends up letting out a sharp, cough that makes his throat and sinuses hurt, but doesn't do much for the irritation in either.

After he swipes at his nose, Cranmer checks Steve's ears, nose, and throat, and listens to his chest a few times before letting Steve zip the hoodie up and get under the blankets. 

"Get some rest. And make sure you drink whatever I have the nurses give you. You're probably going to feel worse before you start feeling better. I'll come back and see you later, though." 

Steve almost asks Cranmer to stay, even for few more minutes to talk. But Cranmer looks tired, and he either has work to get back to or sleep to catch up on. Besides, for all that he's friendly to Steve, Steve's not only his patient, but also the subject of his current ongoing study. If there's a way to take that relationship into account, to not push it aside, and to also ask Cranmer to stay and just talk with him for a little longer, as a friend, then Steve would ask. But he has no idea how and his mind can't settle on the right words. 

"I'll try," he says, instead. He rubs his nose against the tissues in his hand, pressing them close to contain another few coughs. 

Cranmer enters a few notes on his tablet, and a few seconds later, one of the monitors beeps and lights up in response. 

"Room temp monitor," Cranmer explains. He pats Steve on the leg and says goodbye, then the room is empty again.

There's the tv, of course, and a radio, and Steve's books set up on the bedside table, but most of the spartan room is taken up by the bed and the medical equipment. 

More machines, Steve thinks, doleful and tired, and spends about a minute rubbing his eyes and nose. The med staff probably don't even need to hook him up to half of them, the machines seem to hum and beep in reaction to his mere presence in the room. 

"You're not the best company," he murmurs, then, "sorry," when there's a different hum and click. 

The noise is probably a coincidence, but he feels bad for a second anyway, then tells himself that's his fever that's causing to him overreact to pretty much everything around him. The fever, and the fatigue, and the overwhelming desire to be someplace warmer, darker, and quieter. 

_Home._ He wants to go home. The thought makes his throat feel tight and makes his sinuses ache in a way different than before. He wants to go to sleep, and wake up at home, and even if he still has the flu he'll also have... 

Okay, he's not sure what else. Home is just a feeling to him now, a memory of feeling warm and safe. 

Tears prick at his eyes, but he scrubs at them roughly enough to push the feeling away. Not that Steve doesn't kind of want to wallow into sadness, even settle into it in the hope it lulls him into fever-exhausted sleep. He knows it's going to feel like murder on his sinuses to even get close to that kind of teary sadness. The ache's already flaring up behind his eyes and nose, and a heavy snuffle makes it worse. 

He scrubs at his nose, too, with the crumpled tissues in his hand, and gives a quick, one-handed blow into them. A cough rises up in his throat, and Steve rests his other hand against his chest in preparation for a coughing spasm. When it doesn't come, he relaxes, then tenses again when he sniffles. 

No. No, he's going to sneeze. He shudders a little at the memory of the nasal swab, but even that's not enough to stop the sensation, and he ends up sneezing and coughing enough to tire himself out. 

The half-finished cup of tea and untouched jell-o are still on the meal tray by his bed. Steve eyes them half-heartedly, and only reaches for the tea because he told Cranmer he'd drink it. Swallowing hurts his throat, and he's starting to get too stuffed up to taste anything, but he finishes the tea and manages to get through half the jell-o before eating it starts to feel arduous. 

Sitting up, or drinking the warm tea, or something loosens up some of the stuffiness, though. Steve pulls a couple more tissues from his rapidly depleting box, tries to clear his nose, and winces again from the pain in his sinuses. Yeah, he can tell the congestion is getting bad, and the nasal swab must've hit him right where the inflammation was already at its worst. 

Either way, it feels awful, and he's exhausted, and he's pretty sure if he stays awake, all he's going to do is cough and sneeze and blow his nose and be a feverish mess. He gives a deep sigh, starts to reach for more tissues, then coughs when his breath catches, and even wheezes in his chest a little bit. 

Steve wants to laugh at how familiar that sensation is, though it's been so many years since he's even thought about his asthma in this way. The hand to his chest is automatic though his breath calms almost immediately. 

The beds in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical ward aren't that comfortable, and the blankets and sheets feel too stiff and not quite warm enough, but half of the places Steve's slept before this have been a lot less warm and comfortable. He can call up a blurred memory of feeling warm and comforted, which is enough to get him to drop down onto the pillows and pull the blankets around himself to fall asleep.

*

In his dream, he's cold. 

He's so cold, and he's falling, and he's scared. Not of falling, but of what happens after he falls. He knows what's at the end of fall, he knows before he looks, and it takes his breath away.

Just before the ground rushes up to him, his heart beating wildly, he wakes with a start.

*

"Sorry," the nurse says, "but we needed to wake you up." He raises the lights in the room, and elevates the bed so Steve's sitting up against the pillows. 

Steve nods, but he can't process anything more than the bright lights and the sudden cold when the nurse tugs the blankets from his shoulders and chest. He fumbles with the zipper on his hoodie when the nurse asks him to take it off, then yields to having it taken off for him. 

"Temperature and vitals, then I need to check your lungs." The nurse checks Steve's fever, says nothing to him about it as he enters it into the chart, which must mean it's not any higher or lower. 

When he checks Steve's chest and back, it's quick and efficient, but the touch of the stethoscope is shocking cold against Steve's skin. He gets another apology from the nurse, murmured from behind the medical mask, and a hand to his shoulder when breathing deeply sets him coughing. 

"Drink some water," he says and hands Steve a cup. He leaves the bed in the seated position, but dials down the lights and takes the cup away when Steve starts to droop back against the pillows. 

He's asleep again before the nurse leaves, and can faintly remember having the blankets pulled up to his shoulders. 

*

Steve dreams of the cold and the snow, of the endless plunge into the frozen landscape. He dreams of Bucky, and how he keeps slipping through Steve's fingers, and, sometimes, it's not Bucky, it's Peggy and she's never quite close enough for Steve to touch. 

But more often, it's Steve who falls and falls, breathless and cold. 

*

When he wakes up again, he's freezing, and shivering against the blankets. He tries to burrow into them, or pull them closer around his body, but it doesn't work the way Steve thinks it should and all he knows is that he's cold. 

So cold. Interminably cold. The kind of cold he's worried settled into his bones, the kind that he worries, in offhand moments, that he'll never truly recover from.

"There. Okay, Steve? We got you another blanket. It's okay..." 

That's Cranmer's voice. There's a nurse in the room, taking notes on a tablet, but it's Cranmer who pulls the blanket up to Steve's chest, and who pulls off one of his gloves to rest his hand against Steve's forehead. 

"Take him off ... no, the breathing monitor..." Cranmer sounds far away for a moment, the words muddled and distant.. "... and his fever... I'll stay." 

"... sorry," Steve mutters, tries to twist away from the hand on his forehead. "... don't need to stay..." 

"Don't be sorry... nothing to be sorry for." He's close again, then his hand is on Steve's shoulder and he gets eased back against the pillows. "Go back to sleep, Steve." 

He's still shivering though, and whatever energy his body has seems to go into trying to keep warm. The coughing starts up again, too, and it seems to go on forever, the spasm drawn out by Steve's inability to breathe properly through the congestion. 

He can't tell what ends first, the chills or the coughing, but there's a point when he can tell they're both over, and that the heavy warmth of sleep is settling in his limbs once more. 

*

"Come on, Stevie, try it, okay?"

Steve looks down at the cup in his hands. It's too murky to be tea, but he supposes that's what it's supposed to be. It's usually some sort of tea. 

Or, that's what his mom claims, anyway, and it's not like he doesn't believe her. He's pretty sure it's not real tea, because that's kind of hard to come by. She makes him try _everything _, though, in case it's something that'll help him breathe better.__

__"Try it for me?" She says, and pushes his hair back off his forehead, checking for fever, and then stroking his hair._ _

__"Okay, Mom, only for you, though."_ _

__She smiles big and bright at him; she's already dressed for work, and part of Steve hopes that if he drinks all of the tea, simultaneously cloyingly sweet and bitter, that she'll decide to stay home with him._ _

__She does sit down next to him on the bed, and puts her arm around him and kisses the top of his head as he drinks down the warm, sweet drink. He's not really sick enough for her to stay home with him; he only has a cold again, and he was up most of the night coughing._ _

__"That's my good boy," Mom says, and kisses Steve's hair again. She takes the cup away and hugs him close and warm. "Now, I want you to get some sleep..."_ _

__Steve turns his face in against his mom's side and nods. If he stays this way, this close to her with his eyes closed, then she won't go away. "Don't go away," he says, anyway, because he's starting to feel scared. He's too old to be scared, and seven's too old to want his mom this badly, but he does. All he wants is for her to stay home with him._ _

__"I'll be right here when you wake up, Stevie. I promise."_ _

__He nods against her and coughs, and nods again when she rubs his back as he keeps coughing and when she tells him everything's okay, that he's going to be okay._ _

__*_ _

__He gasps awake, and before he can take a breath, he's coughing. Coughing and coughing until he's out of breath, curled on his side._ _

___I know what's wrong. I know... I just need to breathe... The cold, and my asthma, and Mom said..._ _ _

__But the thoughts don't come to Steve in the right order, and instead he thinks of his Mom, and then Bucky, and he remembers how both of them said they'd look after him. He must be home, then, he thinks when somebody touches his shoulder. The thought is the only one he has time for before he yields to a coughing spasm, and feels himself curl right into it, chest aching and his breath coming too short and sharp for him to catch it._ _

__Only after he's coughed himself fully awake does Steve realize he's not home. He's in the hospital..._ _

__No, not the hospital. The clinic. His chest clenches and he turns his face into the pillows. He aches all over, and he feels a little too warm from the coughing, or his fever, he probably still has a fever, and behind the ache in his chest in an overwhelming emptiness._ _

__He'll go to sleep again. That's probably the best thing. His head feels too heavy to lift from the pillows, anyway._ _

__It's a fitful sleep he falls into. He can't get comfortable, and when he does, he ends up waking himself up to cough._ _

__Twice he gets woken up by one of the nurses to have his stats checked, but he's too tired and woozy with fever to do much more than nod when they say anything to him. There's more coughing, and a lot of congested nose blowing, and it feels like every time they unzip the hoodie to check his chest or attach one of the monitors, he shivers violently and starts to sneeze._ _

__Or maybe he imagines that, too. Maybe that's the cold he had back in the army camp when it rained for ten days straight. Or maybe it's the spring the year he turned eleven and felt like he had a head cold the whole season._ _

__Or... or it's none of those and all of those. Before he falls asleep, Steve decides it probably doesn't matter. He's alone, either way._ _

__*_ _

__He dreams about Peggy. He knows he's dreaming, because he always dreams about her. The touch of her hand on his arm, the brush of her cheek against his she stands impossibly close to him._ _

__He likes it best when the dreams aren't anything special, where he's only talking to her, or eating in the mess hall, or maybe driving with her in a car to nowhere important. He could dream those dreams forever._ _

__The other dreams, though, always end in falling. He can't tell if it's him or her, but it hurts the same._ _

__This time, she lays down next to him, puts her arms around him and rests her head against his chest. To listen to him breathe, she says, and he doesn't argue, doesn't say his breathing's fine and doesn't need to be listened to or checked._ _

__"It's fine, I'm fine," he says, but holds her closer._ _

__"I know. You always say you're fine." Peggy rests her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest. "But it's alright, if not fine all the time. If you feel poorly--oh, Steve," she says, leaning away when he turns away, coughing._ _

__"Always... gets me there," he mutters out between coughs, and lets the press of her hand against his chest calm his breathing._ _

__"Even now?"_ _

__He nods, abashed, and turns away before she sees the embarrassment on his face._ _

__She doesn't see it, or doesn't care, because she rests her hand back on his chest and rubs until she's sure his breath won't catch. Then, Peggy leans up and kisses him on the forehead and tells him to try and get some rest._ _

__*_ _

__A soft beep, then the press of a hand to his forehead._ _

__"Shouldn't his fever have broken by now?"_ _

__"He has influenza, the tests came back positive... it could take a couple days..."_ _

__He struggles to avoid the touch, and shivers when the blankets tug away from his shoulders and chest._ _

__Somebody rearranges the blankets, gives him water from a straw, and presses their hand back to his forehead. He feels cold and hot all at once, sweat damp and shivering, and falls into a doze after somebody else fixes the blankets and wipes his face with a cool cloth._ _

__*_ _

__"You'll get sick."_ _

__"No, I won't. You only manage to get yourself sick. Anyway, you're in my bed. Move over..."_ _

__Steve sighs and lets Bucky sit down on the bed next to him close enough that he's practically on top of Steve. He does something with the pillows that's probably meant to make them more comfortable, but mostly ends up pulling Steve in closer to rest against his chest. The bed's hardly big enough for two adult men of similar height and build but it's nice. Secure. He likes sleeping here, he likes it when Bucky rests a hand on his chest and tells him sounds like he's starting to wheeze a little._ _

__Oh. That's impossible. They wouldn't be, not here, not like this, not when Steve looks like this and Bucky's...._ _

__He pushes the thought away before it has a chance to fully form and lets his head rest against Bucky's shoulder. Bucky's here with him, his arm around Steve, his hand reaching up to stroke Steve's hair._ _

__"Did you get some sleep?_ _

__"Yeah... I feel like I slept forever."_ _

__"That's good. I don't know what you did to yourself this time, Stevie, but you're pretty sick. Okay?"_ _

__"Y-yeah..." Steve holds up one hand to shield Bucky, and turns his face into his shoulder to sneeze._ _

__"Finished?"_ _

__Steve shakes his head keeps going, interrupting Bucky when he starts to bless him. By the time he's done, he has to take a minute to catch his breath._ _

__Bucky shifts to press the palm of his hand to Steve's chest, to listen to the wheeze in his breath, to kiss him on the forehead and to press his lips to Steve's when he's sure Steve's alright._ _

__"I brought you dinner. Do you feel up to eating today?"_ _

__"Yeah, I think so." Steve coughs briefly and clears his throat, then shakes his head when Bucky frowns at him. "What did you bring me? Soup?"_ _

__"Soup. Chicken soup, with the rice and carrots, the sort you like. What do you want with it? Bread?"_ _

__Steve shrugs and nestles himself in closer to Bucky, listens to him talk about dinner and work and how Steve should have tea after his soup. He feels so warm and comfortable, that he doesn't want to fall asleep lest the feeling slip away from him._ _

__"D'you think you can eat some dinner before you fall asleep again?"_ _

__"M'not going to fall asleep..."_ _

__Sleeping's good, though, and falling asleep like this feels safe, too, because then he won't feel the unsteadiness, the uncertainty of the fear of other kinds of falling._ _

__"Liar. You're already halfway there. But you're eating your soup when you wake up if I have to feed you myself."_ _

__That makes him laugh, sleepy and content, and he can't figure out why Bucky would be so worried about him eating. Doesn't matter. He likes that, too, likes the worry and the too-close way they sit together on the bed._ _

__*_ _

__The light in the room is warm and low, and Steve can hear the soft humming sound of the med-scan unit next to his bed. He takes a few minutes to come fully awake, and he has to clear his throat a couple times before he can even attempt talking._ _

__"What time is it?"_ _

__"Two-thirty." Cranmer sits up in the bedside chair and puts his book aside._ _

__Steve tries to work out the time difference between now and when he fell asleep, but he can't quite grapple with the math. "I've only been asleep an hour? Or, wait... a whole twenty-four hours?"_ _

__"No, neither. It's the middle of the night."_ _

__He stands and stretches and run his hands through his already messy, dark hair. He's wearing jeans and a tee shirt, no lab coat, and he's pulled the gloves off, though he still has the mask on over his nose and mouth. He's wearing glasses, too, and he takes those off and puts them next to his book. Reading glasses, then._ _

__Steve blinks at him, turns to cough at his shoulder, and lets his head fall back against the pillow. He feels tired and achy, like he hasn't slept at all, and his head's heavy with congestion._ _

__"Can I get water, please?" Steve coughs again after the few words, and his voice sounds completely wrecked. He can hardly talk, really, from the sore throat and congestion, but it seems rude to just point to the pitcher. "Sorry... I sound... Ugh.."_ _

__"Yeah, you sound awful. Don't apologize," Cranmer adds. He takes the lid off Steve's cup, refills it, and hands it over after Steve untangles the blankets. "Would you rather have something hot to drink? Tea, or broth, or even water with honey and lemon?"_ _

__Steve shrugs. The cold water feels nice on his throat, and even his chest feels a little better after a few sips. Slow, careful sips, and he actually has to concentrate on the act, he's so congested that it's difficult to swallow and breathe. When he lowers the cup, Cranmer nods at it._ _

__"I want you to finish that, and then pick something else to drink, alright? You're still pretty feverish. You can have more water, or even some Gatorade if you want."_ _

__He shakes his head this time, and, after a couple more sips of water, croaks, "Tea's okay."_ _

__"Good."_ _

__Cranmer watches his drink a little longer, then goes to talk to somebody out in the hall. It takes Steve a while to realize the nurse's station must be close by, which also explains the frequent and easy visits from the nurses throughout the evening._ _

__When Cranmer returns, he sits down on the bed across from Steve and waits for the empty water cup._ _

__"How are you feeling?"_ _

__Steve shrugs in reply to this question, too. "Terrible?"_ _

__"I know. I'm... yeah, I'm just going to take a quick look..." Cranmer leans in to feel Steve's glands, winces at the same time Steve does at the touch, and then draws back to grab a penlight off the bedside table. He shines it Steve's eyes, and then looks into his ears and throat. When he's finished he sighs, and looks concerned. "You must feel so congested... I'm sorry," he says. "Look, Steve, if you feel really bad, you only need to tell me, okay? I'm calling the shots on this one, not Moore, and if you need Tylenol or decongestants tomorrow, I'll give them to you."_ _

__"What? Oh... M'not..." Steve rubs the heel of one hand into his eye and sniffles again. "I'm okay. I'm... Oh..." His eyes water from being rubbed and irritated, and his sinuses remind him there's still a headache there, and Steve presses his nose into the sleeve of his blue hoodie when a tired snuffle. "Ugh, pardon me."_ _

__"You're definitely not okay. You're already at the worst of it, though, I think."_ _

__Steve doesn't actually know what to say in response to that, and he's too tired to puzzle it out. He leans back into the pillows, breathing through his mouth, and sniffles a few times to try and get past the congestion in his head a little. That's a futile effort, though, and he ends up coughing more than anything._ _

__Cranmer sits with him, though, and doesn't even stand to get the tea from the nurse, waiting for them to bring it to him instead._ _

__"I got you lemon tea, with honey. I don't think you can taste anything, though?"_ _

__"Nope."_ _

__"Drink it all anyway."_ _

__Cranmer hands him an insulated mug, and then exchanges the box of tissues on the bed with a full one. They're better tissues, Steve can tell from the lack of the non-descript box the clinic stocks, and for some reason that, more than the hot tea, reassures him._ _

__"You stayed," he says, after wrapping his hands around the mug._ _

__"Well, I stayed for a while, then left to get some more sleep. Then I came back, yeah."_ _

__"I'm grateful," Steve says. He turns to rub his nose against his shoulder, then into his sleeve when sniffling rouses up the warm, tingly sensation at the back of it._ _

__"I feel responsible," Cranmer says, then shakes his head. "You're my patient, of course, but I put you in the clinic instead sending you home, and I agreed to keep you off any medicine.. And we talk, right?"_ _

__Steve nods. "Yeah. And, thanks, really."_ _

__Steve looks down at the tea. A couple sips and a minute of breathing the steam already has him snuffling over and over again, and he needs to press a few tissues to his nose before he can look back up._ _

__"Is it... I have the flu?" Sudden, strange anxiety flares up in his chest. People can _die_ from the right strain of influenza. "But it's not--" _ _

__Cranmer must see the anxiety on his face because he pats Steve on the leg. "Yes, it's the flu. It's not H1N1 or anything like that. You're not going to start some epidemic, so don't look so worried," he adds when Steve frowns._ _

__"I'm not--" Steve cuts himself off when the tingling sensation at the back of his nose and sinuses builds again. He still has his crumpled tissues in his hand, and he uses them to push back the urge to sneeze._ _

__"Okay, don't do that... your sinuses already probably hate you." Cranmer takes the mug from Steve and hands him a few tissues in exchange._ _

__There's a few more sneezes, too, more rough, chesty sounding ones that make Steve think about all the childhood colds that ever settled into his chest and stayed there for weeks. Even if he gets through this bout of flu as easily as he does a cold, his chest is still going to be the last to be clear of any symptoms. The cough and congestion, they're always the worst for him, and although now his head feels worse than his chest, he can feel it coming._ _

__After Steve blows his nose, Cranmer puts the gloves back on to help remove the used tissues off the bed. He cleans up the bed like he does Steve's morning check-up, though, quick and efficient, businesslike, and he stands up from the bed when he's done. He peels off the gloves, and drops them into the bin, too._ _

__"Finish your tea and try to get back to sleep. I'll see you in the morning." Cranmer leaves his book, but takes his glasses, and gives Steve a nod before he leaves._ _

__Steve reaches for his tea, finishes it off more easily now that he can breathe a little better, and takes a trip to the lav before settling in to try and sleep again._ _

__It doesn't come easy this time, though. He's a little winded from the walk back and forth to the lav, and then around his room, but not enough to help him get back to sleep more easily._ _

__His shoulders and his legs still ache, in the manner that makes the bed feel uncomfortable. The congestion gathers in his head as soon as he's settled back against the pillows, and the heavy, dull headache that had eased somewhat returns with a vengeance._ _

__The memories, however, are worse than the flu symptoms, though Steve's aware enough to realize they're probably magnifying each other. The memories of his old life never really leave him; while he knows he can't forget, it's easier to not have to remember all the time._ _

__He can't blame the dreams for forcing him to remember; he always remembers, but his memories don't feel as real as the fever dreams did. Even the dreams of falling, of losing his grip on everything he held dear, don't usually feel this real._ _

__He wants to dream the same dreams over again, and, at the same time, is scared that he will._ _

__The chills get him before the anxiety, though, and he swings his legs back up on the bed and underneath the blankets. His chest aches, and his head feels heavy, and even if he can't sleep, he might as well try to close his eyes against and rest._ _

__*_ _

__Steve must fall asleep, though, because when he opens his eyes, there's daylight in his room. The blankets are tangled around him, and somebody, probably one of the nursing staff, zipped his hoodie up for him._ _

__"Good, you're awake." A nurse comes in a few minutes after he wakes up with a breakfast tray._ _

__Steve eyes it warily. "Barely," he croaks._ _

__"Your doctors want you to having something to drink, at least, but there's applesauce and oatmeal if you're hungry."_ _

__There's tea and water, too, and probably juice in one of the cups. Steve rubs both hands over his face and cups them over his mouth to cover a series of coughs._ _

__"Tell him to eat something even if he's not hungry." Cranmer's in the doorway, dressed in his usual shirt and tie and lab coat, and he smiles when Steve peers at him over the edges of his fingers. "Try the oatmeal."_ _

__Steve can only groan at the thought of swallowing down the warm cereal with his wrecked throat and stuffy head. He doesn't have enough energy to argue, though, and lets the nurse pull the tray over his lap._ _

__"I'll check his stats and fever," Cranmer says, dismissing the nurse. He drops three small medicine cups on the tray next to the breakfast. "Fever reducer, decongestant, and anti-viral pills. You need to eat first, though."_ _

__"I'll... do I need all of that, though?" His head still feels like it's filled with concrete, but the woozy, feverish feeling isn't so bad. Steve rubs at his face again, and pokes at the oatmeal._ _

__"You probably don't need them, but you'll feel better after taking them. At least take something for your fever and aches." Cranmer leans in to use the thermometer to take Steve's temperature, and pats him on shoulder. "Yeah, take the acetaminophen. You had a rough night, and you'll sleep better today if you do. Your fever's down, but it's not normal yet."_ _

__He eats his breakfast, or, well, he eats a few spoonfuls of the bland cereal and drinks his water and his tea, and lets Cranmer hand him the tablets. He's tempted to ask Cranmer if he's going to monitor the effects the drugs have on his system, but he figures the answer is already going to be yes._ _

__"Your chest sounds kind of bad," Cranmer says as he listens to Steve's breathing. "But I don't think you'll have any complications. When you feel up to it, you can go back to your room."_ _

__"Oh. You don't need... Data?"_ _

__"I'll come by to collect whatever 'data' we might need. Like, if you're sleeping and eating, or if you need somebody to talk to while you get better." He keeps the stethoscope on Steve's chest when his breath hitches, but lets Steve lean away to cough._ _

__Cranmer moves the tissues next to the breakfast tray and hand Steve another pair of tablets. "Take the decongestants, too. I'll leave the anti-virals up to you."_ _

__He ends up taking both, not up to weighing the pros and cons, and even finishes all the drinks that came with his breakfast. When he gets back from a trip to the lav, Cranmer has something quiet and mindless on the television for him._ _

__"Did you want to go back to your room? Or rest some more first?"_ _

__Steve shrugs. Sitting back down on the bed makes him not want to get back up again, however._ _

__"Rest, then." He picks up the book he left on the bedside table last night, takes out his reading glasses, and sits down. "I can stay for a while, at least until you fall asleep. Being sick can be isolating, I know, and I have some time to spare since you're my first two appointments this morning anyway. I'll take you back to your room, too, around lunchtime."_ _

__When Cranmer says he'll stay and that he'll come back, Steve finds it incredibly easy and comforting to believe him. And that makes it a little easier to fall into a light, dreamless sleep._ _


End file.
